


Unstable Equilibrium

by Mertiya



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Demisexuality, First Time, Hand Jobs, I Can't Believe We Lived Through the Plague Sex, M/M, Mad Scientists in Love, Post-Game(s), Public Sex, Rastaban Strikes Again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 21:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10579701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: Now that the plague is officially over, the city's saviors celebrate; Piero tries to figure out what he and Anton are to each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rastaban](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rastaban/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Natural Philosopher and the Nonlinear Terms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/870534) by [Rastaban](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rastaban/pseuds/Rastaban). 



> Yadda yadda Rastaban writes the long dramatic stuff, sucks me into the fandom, and suddenly I'm writing the cute sexy bits that come afterwards. Go read all her stuff. Seriously. Go read it. I'm hoping this works as a proper sequel to her fic The Natural Philosopher and the Nonlinear Terms, but it's not finished, so who knows, maybe something horrible will happen and Anton and Piero will just DIE. LET'S HOPE NOT. Also, credit goes to her as well for a few of the ideas in this that I got from trawling the NPAM prompts on her blog.

            Piero did not recall the lights at the Golden Cat being so—well—golden. The last time he had visited, they had, if he recalled correctly, given off a rather harsh and unwelcoming luminescence, but now it was as if the composition of the light had been fundamentally altered by the touch of some superhuman hand. Surely it was merely a mental illusion, the gold of this light, spilling out into the street like the comfortable glow of metal in a crucible, but it was a fundamentally comforting illusion nonetheless.

            When Anton had first proposed to host a celebration in the wake of Emily’s official declaration that Dunwall was plague-free, he had been somewhat skeptical. Parties were not things that Piero Joplin found particularly compelling; _he_ was not a Tyvian rake. And yet—the city _breathed_ again, in a way it had not done for such a long time. Piero felt as if he had been trapped beneath a river for an interminable time and had only now managed to surface. And along with that feeling of breath, of life, there came a strange, half-hysterical desire to celebrate it. What was making a fool of himself in front of countless citizens now, when he had battled the plague, and it was the plague that had lost?

            Still, now that he was actually here, he hesitated, lingering in the shadows to the side of the open door. It was difficult to get himself to take that final step. Perhaps he might linger a while longer in this comfortable quiet—even welcoming lights could be blinding.

            His hesitation lasted for only another few moments before Anton Sokolov appeared at the door, dressed all in red and carrying a half-full glass of wine in one hand. He peered around the door, then grinned in triumph. “I thought I’d find you here.”

            “I was just about to enter,” Piero lied.

            “Of course you were. Now come in and be a hero. People respect heroes in ways they fucking well should respect natural philosophers, but might as well get the praise somehow.”

            Piero eyed Anton sideways. “Do you really care so much for praise?”

            His friend shrugged. “Well, it’s much more comfortable than the alternative. Nice, sometimes. On a special occasion.” One large hand reached out and took Piero’s shoulder, steering him into the light. He blinked, waiting for a moment as his eyes adjusted. The room was already close to full with warm bodies, an absurd number of specimens of humanity. Piero’s head spun; this was certainly more people than had been at the last party he attended, and their attire was significantly more—variegated. He turned to Anton. “How many people did you _invite_? Who are they all?”

            “It was Dunwall whose corpse we saved from rotting on the dungheap, so I figured Dunwall should celebrate.”

            “ _You invited the whole city?_ ”

            “Not directly. Have a drink.” He pushed another glass of wine into Piero’s unresisting grip. “Come on, have some food. Join me on a couch. Fuck if I want to stay on my feet all evening.”

            “But—what will we do?” What _did_ one do at parties? The last one he had been at, as he recalled, he had spent most of the evening either being manipulated or making a fool out of himself in attempting to make conversation.

            Anton’s hand, which, Piero realized, had not yet left his shoulder, tightened slightly “I’m sure we can find something to talk about. You can tell me about the latest mixture you’ve devised to knock out poor, unsuspecting alcoholics.”

            “I could have done that in my laboratory! You hardly needed to drag me all the way out here to—”

            “Piero. Indulge me?”

            “Oh, v-very well.” Piero reminded himself that he had, in fact, chosen to come, that celebrating seemed to be the order of the day, even if it seemed strange for that celebration to merely be everyday acts performed in a different locale. Perhaps, however, he might enjoy parties more if they more often confined themselves to everyday acts. In a strange sense, then, it might be said that Anton was doing him a favor.

            He allowed himself to be led across the room to a couch, where Anton made loud noises until the people already occupying it looked up, realized who it was, and vacated it. Anton pushed him down gently and then said, “a moment,” before melting away into the crowd again.

            “Oh, r-really,” Piero said crossly at empty air. He sipped at his glass. The wine, which he was expecting to be tepid, was actually chilled, sweet and good. He hadn’t known that wine could taste like that. He wondered if the same oddity responsible for the transformation of the lights had also affected the wine.

            Anton returned momentarily, carrying a plate piled high with food of various sorts, which he pushed into Piero’s lap. Piero stared. “I,” he began. “I c-can’t possibly—”

            “Try it. There is an overabundance.”

            Diffidently, Piero managed to maneuver what appeared to be a small, sticky pastry to his mouth. It was, in his inexperienced estimation, quite delicious, he had to admit, and he spared a moment to lick the stickiness from his fingers. When he looked up, Anton was watching him intensely.

            “What?” Piero asked, feeling rather defensive. “I suppose that was impolite of me, was it not?” For some reason, instead of making him uncomfortable, Anton’s scrutiny made Piero feel almost bold. “Would you like to try one as well? They are quite good.” He plucked another one of the little pastries up. At the last minute, his unusual boldness and the gold of the lights, the chill of the wine, all blended together in some strange alchemical reaction to push him to hold the delicacy to Anton’s mouth rather than to his hands.

            His friend’s mouth opened, perhaps automatically, and Piero deposited the mouthful. Anton’s startled eyes caught his, and then with the ghost of a grin, he chewed, swallowed, and took Piero’s hand in his, thoughtfully. “My turn,” he said, and raised Piero’s sticky fingers to his lips.

            Piero blinked in surprise as Anton’s tongue moved carefully across the pads of his fingers, down the joints, tracing the little wrinkles in the skin that covered the spot between the intermediate and proximal phalanges. He was excruciatingly aware of the sensations—that his hands, at least, were highly sensitive, was a fact that Piero had discovered early and used primarily in the manufacture of delicate instruments. It had never occurred to him to wonder if other people’s hands were similarly sensitive, although he supposed the sense of touch was rather important, and, as a species with opposable thumbs and the ability to use tools, it seemed likely that it was—which meant that Anton presumably was aware that he was stimulating a very tactile area.

            As Piero came to this conclusion, Anton swirled his tongue around the top of Piero’s metacarpal, and made a noise that even Piero had to notice was bordering on the obscene. That, coupled with the fact that Piero himself was starting to feel something stirring in the pit of his stomach that he had rarely before felt and even more rarely been able to induce in himself made him suddenly, finally, make a connection that he hardly believed. And yet—it _was_ Anton. “Are you trying to _seduce_ me?”

            The Royal Physician sat back with a laugh, releasing Piero’s finger with a popping noise that caused another stab of something to shoot directly down Piero’s stomach and into his groin. “Oh, thank the Void you noticed.”

            “…why?”

            Anton cocked an eyebrow at him, sighed, and shook his head with a small smile. “Because I’ve rarely found someone who touched head and heart the way you do.”

            Piero’s heart pounded in his ears as if he were running for his life. “You—could have anyone in the city,” he murmured.

            “As could you,” Anton replied bluntly. “Enough people know who you are now that you could fuck any maid you liked.”

            “B-But I do not want anyone else.” The answer slipped out before Piero realized the implications of the statement. To not want _anyone else_ , not to not want _anyone_. And yet, for all that Piero had seldom been desirous of anyone, his statement had the ring of truth.

            “Well. And it’s strange to you that I don’t, either?”

            “Yes,” whispered Piero. “No one has ever w-wanted me before.”

            “The world’s full of babbling idiots,” Anton agreed affably. “You think I cannot discern true gold from pyrite?”

            Piero had to smile at that. “I have seen you say foolish things,” he pointed out. “I saw you twice respond to Farley Havelock offering you your life by telling him to go f-fuck himself.”

            “Good thing, too, look how well things turned out.”

            “Y-You could not have known that at the time.”

            “It’s not foolish if it works. Then it’s heroic.” He leaned forward and put a hand on Piero. “You haven’t said if you’re amenable.”

            “Amenable?” Piero echoed in confusion.

            “To the seduction.”

            “Oh, well, y-yes, I suppose so.” Piero shifted uncomfortably. “You did not need to.”

            Anton, who had begun to lean even further forward, paused, though one hand slid around Piero’s waist. “What do you mean?”

            “You could have simply asked. The—the frills were—unnecessary.”

            “Of course they were necessary,” Anton said seriously. “You think I’d accord you less respect than a kitchen slattern? That’s not how it’s done, man.”

            There was a warm feeling growing deep in Piero’s chest, and the lights seemed more golden than ever. “Perhaps you had better show me how it _is_ done, then.”

            The roguish grin that Anton gave him made his heart pound louder in his ears and sent a shiver down his spine. “I thought you’d never ask.”

            “Where should we go?”

            “Why go anywhere? This is a nice couch.”

            Piero, who had shifted the plate of food in preparation to rising, gawped. Surely Anton didn’t mean—“ _Here_?”

            The Royal Physician shrugged. “Why not? Everyone else is busy. The whole thing is probably going to devolve into an orgy anyway.”

            When he put it like that—an odd, half-hysterical feeling of grateful safety rose up in Piero’s gut. What more could the universe possibly do to them? Were they not owed this quiet moment, insulated from storms and dreams? Leaning forward himself, he pressed his lips hesitantly into Anton’s, and felt the other man moan into his mouth. The large hand behind him tightened at his waist, then slipped to his belt and tugged.

        Piero paused with his hand hovering over Anton’s leg. “I—” he started, swallowed, tried again. “That is—I am not sure I know precisely what to do.”

        Anton smirked at him; the hand at his waist drew him closer. “Just do what you’d do for yourself.”

        This, too, presented a problem. “I—do not—of course I _have_ , but—rarely? I-I d-do not often f-feel the need.” He considered and realized this might be taken poorly. “I-I f-feel the need n-now,” he clarified.

        Anton chuckled darkly and moved his thigh. Piero gasped high in his throat. “Yes, I can feel your ‘need’ pressing up against me.” He took Piero’s hand and guided it to his own waist. “Do as I do, then. Belt first.”

        Cheeks hot, Piero bent to his task. At first his hands shook, but as he felt Anton’s practiced hands gently undo his own belt, they steadied, and he was able to first unbuckle and then remove the article of clothing. A hand on his cheek drew him to look up into Anton’s dark eyes, and then Anton’s lips were pressed into his. The second kiss was more insistent than the first. Anton’s hand on his back drew him closer still; Piero was almost in the other man’s lap by now. Almost before he realized what was happening, Anton had undone the front of his trousers and grasped his erection.

        “ _Oh_ —” A shudder ran through Piero’s body, like and unlike the trembling of his limbs as he surfaced from a nightmare. His hips bucked forward, and he clutched at Anton’s shoulders, suddenly desperate to be certain he was there. “ _Please_ —”

        “You don’t have to beg,” Anton murmured in his ear, and now the lips were on his throat. “Whatever you want from me, you can have it.” The hand between Piero’s legs squeezed, ever-so-slightly. It was enough—it was too much—Anton’s touch and his voice and his words and his breath—all of it combined in one moment of bright, warm ecstacy, drawing a ragged shout from the natural philosopher’s throat.

        A year ago, had Piero been able to envision this scene at all, he would have termed it the ultimate indignity—brought to sexual climax within moments at the hands of none other than Anton Sokolov himself. But now, the most recent weeks behind him, it was a moment of perfection, of golden quiet, like the moment just after the spark of the arc pylon ignited—fleeting in its glory, but no less precious for that.

            Breath sobbing in his throat, he collapsed forward and found Anton’s warm arms encircling him. “I—ah—I’m sorry,” he managed to gasp.

            “Eh?”

            “I was under the impression that r-reaching climax too quickly was frowned upon?” Although it was not something that he had done a particular study of.

            Anton laughed. “Only if you’re using your cock to stimulate the other person. Besides, I didn’t expect you to last that long.”

            “Should I be insulted?” But Piero’s lips curved up into a smile that he hoped Anton saw.

            “You have admitted to being inexperienced, and I know that neither of us has indulged in a long period of time. I doubt I’ll last much longer, though I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to test that theory.”

            “Ah—of course—”

            During the previous few minutes, his hands had moved to Anton’s shoulders. Swallowing, he reoriented and undid the front of Anton’s trousers, sliding his hand clumsily inside. His—should he think of him as a lover now?—hissed through his teeth and then moaned. A large hand took his and guided it. “Grasp it,” Anton instructed, voice murky with desire. Anton’s closed gently over his, and Piero closed his own hand around—Anton. He felt impossibly warm beneath Piero’s hand, and Piero could feel something pulsing slightly beneath the surface. “Now—up and down— _nnn_ —” The final sound was jerked out of Anton’s throat as Piero did as he was instructed, hesitantly at first, but then with greater authority as Anton’s head tipped back and his hips twitched beneath Piero’s hands.

            “Ah—fuck—good—that’s right—” It wasn’t so difficult, Piero thought distractedly. Anton was responsive, and his hand over Piero’s was insistent. And there was something about watching him like this—head flung back, sweat standing out along his cheekbones above a heavy flush that was not due to alcohol—vulnerable. Beautiful. Piero wanted to draw out more of the noises he was already making; not only that, he wanted to surprise Anton. Wanted to show him that inexperience would not make Piero a totally uncreative lover.

            Had not he heard something about a mouth being more pleasurable than a hand? It was logical; more heat, more moisture, a greater similarity to the more reproductive location to insert a penis. He paused for a moment, touching Anton’s hand. “Let go,” he said softly. Anton made a sad, strangled noise, reluctantly loosening his hand, and then Piero leaned forward and wrapped his lips clumsily around Anton’s member.

            “ _Bozjemoi_ ,” Anton choked out, and before Piero could figure out what to do next, something thick and salty burst across his tongue. It tasted entirely disgusting, but it was easier to swallow it than to spit it out. He reached for the glass of wine immediately, and to his relief, the unpleasant taste faded rapidly. When he looked up, Anton was blinking at him, and Piero was suddenly embarrassed. “Should I not have—”

            “Come here.” The glass of wine dropped to the floor as Anton’s arms drew Piero into a fierce embrace, kissing him with sudden ferocity. Teeth ghosted across Piero’s bottom lip, and even though he could not possibly be aroused again within such a short span of time, he felt a sudden twist of desire coil in his belly. He let his mouth open slightly and found, to his surprise, that the sensation of their tongues tracing across one another was most agreeable.

            They kissed for some time longer, and then, tired, Piero curled against the warmth of Anton’s chest, intending only to rest for a moment. But the moment stretched and turned long and dark, and then Piero was blinking sleep from his eyes, wondering what had woken him. It took him a few moments to remember where he was and to assure himself that he was not dreaming, nor, oddly, had he dreamed the night before. He had slept deeply and well, although his side ached slightly from the unusual position.

            The Golden Cat was quiet now. Not wholly empty, although there were fewer people in it than there had been the night before. Most of them were sprawled across the benches, the couches, the floor, asleep as he had been. Empty glasses and plates littered the remainder of the flat surfaces. One or two young women—probably courtesans—were quietly picking their way around the sleeping guests, collecting the remains of the party the night before.

            At Piero’s side, Anton stirred in his sleep, groaning and murmuring. It was probably his movements that had woken Piero; it seemed that Anton had not escaped the nightmares as thoroughly as Piero had, and the natural philosopher felt a twinge of something akin to guilt. A fragment of a memory stirred in him, of his mother bending over his bed when he was a child crying with fever. Something drew his hand to Anton’s forehead, and he stroked the dark hair back from it. Dark eyes fluttered and opened, still clouded with sleep.

            “The latest remedy—” Anton forced out hoarsely. “It did not work?”

            So those were the horrors his mind had conjured up during the night. It was, perhaps, better than if it had sent him back to Pandyssia.

            Piero shook his head and to his surprise, he bent forward and kissed the Royal Physician’s forehead gently. “Hush, love, it’s over. The plague is over.” The endearment sat no more strangely on his tongue than Anton’s name might have. A sudden clatter of crockery drew Piero’s vision upwards. One of the courtesans, a full-breasted woman with scarlet hair wearing a remarkably brightly patterned pink dress, was looking at him. In her hands was a tray of empty wineglasses, several of which had fallen when the tray shook in her hands. She was weeping slightly, a single tear tracing its way from her eye down the bridge of her nose, but she smiled when she saw Piero’s look, and then she mouthed, _Thank you_.

            Embarrassed, a little confused, he gave her a jerky nod, and she moved on. He turned back to Anton, who still regarded him with some confusion. Piero folded one of Anton’s large hands between his. “You’re awake; this is real.”

            What was becoming a familiar litany seemed to do the trick; the Royal Physician groaned and sat up. “Fuck,” he groaned. “I didn’t even have that much to drink last night.”

            “Unfortunately, that may have been the culprit,” Piero pointed out. “I have observed that when men who are accustomed to wine drink less of it, their nightmares often increase.”

            Anton made a disgusted noise, then slumped sideways against Piero. “Do not remind me,” he said glumly. “I imagine I have a good number of uncomfortable nights ahead of me.”

            “Would my company ameliorate the discomfort?” Piero blurted. “I—l-last n-night w-was—I h-h-have n-not had s-s-such an enjoyable t-time within m-m-memory. Although I d-do not know how often I w-will wish to p-pursue such carnal pleasures, b-because—”

            “You do not often feel the need. I recall.”

            Piero flushed. “I wish it were not so,” he said truthfully.

            A lazy grin. “Do you object to my attempting to coax you to feel the need?”

            The back of his neck and his ears were growing warm, but Piero mutely shook his head. “I do not mind anything you d-do,” he said honestly. “Even if I am not—not personally—stimulated—I do not think I would object to bringing you to climax. I believe I enjoy—”

            “Watching me fall apart? _Bozjemoi_ , but you have a streak of Tyvian in you after all, Piero.”

            Crimson, Piero mutely shook his head, but he was smiling, and the smile only grew wider as Anton bent forward, slid a hand up the side of his cheek and guided their mouths together with care. “Please stay the nights with me, Piero Joplin,” he breathed.

            “You don’t have to beg,” Piero brought their lips together again, “but I must admit I enjoy watching it.”

            Anton’s answering shout of laughter was sweeter to his ears than the hum of working machinery.


End file.
